


Run Like the Devil

by fancastik



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cassidy is a disaster, College AU, F/M, Jesse is a mess, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Smoking, Suicide, Tulip is a badass, mentions of child abuse, so you know, the usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancastik/pseuds/fancastik
Summary: If someone had asked Jesse even two years ago what he wanted to do with his life, he would have had an answer.  Now, three years into college and just having celebrated his twenty first birthday, if he was asked about future career goals, he’d have to be honest and admit he had no damn clue.





	Run Like the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the ideas for this fic are based loosely around [triumvirature's](https://triumviratuse.tumblr.com/) headcannon's and moodboard. Their posts are really what inspired me to write this in the first place.

If someone had asked Jesse even two years ago what he wanted to do with his life, he would have had an answer. A firefighter, at least that was the dream when he was six and watched the post office down on main street go up in a ball of scalding flames. The heat licked at his skin even after he was a few hundred yards away. He’d watched the ball of orange fire light up the night sky, spewing ash along the roadway and coating the air in a smokey smog. It’d taken close to two hours for the blaze to be extinguished.

At ten it became a cop, because his father had instilled in him a sense of duty and responsibility that even now nipped at the back of his mind. He’d given a presentation on that one once, standing at the front of his fifth grade class dressed in a blue button-up shirt and wearing a clip-on deputies star. He’d insisted on wearing his cowboy boots and hat too, feeling like John Wayne as he spoke about what police officers did and why it was the career he’d chose. 

Once childhood whims gave way to teenage angst, the idea of flipping burgers for eight bucks an hour at Flavour Station didn’t seem like such a bad life anymore. Now, three years into college and just having celebrated his twenty-first birthday, if he was asked about future career goals, he’d have to be honest and admit he had no damn clue. What good was a religious studies major anyway? Need someone who could recite the Holy Bible and the Quran backwards and fowards, he was your guy, anything else and you were shit out of luck. 

There was the minor in English of course, with classes that he was doing fine in, but when he thought of the future it was this dark cavernous thing that scared the living daylights out of him. He could get lost in his mind just trying to picture himself in two years, where would he be? Would the thousands of dollars of student loans ever be paid off? It was a daunting concept, so he did everything he could to avoid facing it. 

Mostly, he drank. Which, while it was a fairly common thing to do on a campus full of fledging adults, he tended to take it to extremes. It wasn’t uncommon for the sprinklers on the campus lawn to be his alarm clock, waking with his face pressed into the dirt and a headache as large as his home state. It happened so frequently he could almost be included as an attraction in the brochure for the school. 

‘Tulane University, an acceptance rate of 30% and we still have this dumbass drooling on the sod.’ 

He’d make a great mascot, better than that damned bird anyhow. 

Today, however, was an exception. When he woke it was wrapped in the sweat soaked confines of his own sheets. Spring had started to arrive, bringing humidity and a suffocating heat; the dorms air conditioning was a piece of shit to say the least. Sunlight had managed to find its way through his blinds in thin slats. Where the light fell, a sheen of dust followed, casting a dim glow over the mess that surrounded him; Beer cans scattered across his desk and dresser, piles of clothes thrown into corners, trash littered the tiled floor, mostly to-go boxes and half-finished water bottles. 

Blinking groggily, he took one glance at the room and groaned before burrowing further into the comforter that had been strewn over him haphazardly. His head was throbbing, enough for his ears to thrum with the pressure and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to just die. Hangovers, to put it simply, were the fucking worst. 

Beside Jesse, a body shifted. An amber hand came to wrap around him, nimble fingers splaying across his chest. Warm breath danced across his back, raising goosebumps, as Tulip pressed a kiss to his spine, right between his shoulder blades. He grumbled something intelligible into the grey and white striped comforter and she huffed out a laugh. 

“You missed class,” her voice was soft, like warm honey that he wanted to wrap himself in and never leave. It was a nice contrast to her usually raised tone. He grunted in reply, relishing in the feeling of her fingers tracing designs on the fever kissed skin of his back. Jesse ran hot, it was something that Tulip griped about endlessly. They usually couldn’t share a cover because he’d sweat her out, leaving her huffing about how he was like a furnace, as if he could somehow control his body temperature. 

“Miss anything important?” 

He shrugged, there may have been a quiz in his Victorian Literature class but damn if he knew. He could barely remember what day it was right now, Wednesday maybe? The red digits of the alarm clock on his nightstand read 10:45 at him accusingly; his first class had been at nine. Why he continued to pick such early classes was beyond him. Tulip was the smart one, an astrophysics major who had enough common sense to start her day at one. When she wasn’t babysitting him, she worked mornings, down at the campus Starbucks. Her short temper wasn’t a hit with the customers, but she was a hard-worker and made a damn good latte, so the managers kept her. 

She shifted, hand on his chest pulling away so she could prop herself up on her elbow and look down at him. The fingers on his back moved to the nape of his neck, threading through wild tufts of brown hair. He sighed, and pressed back against her. Like any sane person on this planet, he loved people playing with his hair; especially Tulip, because she knew just where to press to relieve some of pressure building up in his head. Seven years they’ve known each other, they’d learned each other’s ticks and quirks eons ago. Having her around felt like an extension of himself, and when she was gone there was an ache in his gut that never quite went away. 

“You’re like a cat,” she laughed as he nuzzled against her, a pleased sound escaping him.

“’ve got a headache,” Jesse grumbled, feeling a hit to his masculinity but too nauseous to care. His voice was rough from disuse and cracked as he spoke. 

Tulip smiled at him fondly as he turned his head just enough to look up at her. It was a small, toothless thing, but still crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look radiant, even in the dimness of the room. He could feel the breath leave his lungs, like a punch to the gut. God, she was gorgeous. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of looking at her, not when she looked like she’d just waltzed off the set of some modeling gig. Her eyes had caught what little sunlight was in the room, hazel lit aglow and looking like a sunrise, all golden and dewy. Jesse’d live in those eyes if he could. He’d do just about anything for her. 

Even though it was hell on his head and all attached joints, he lifted up just enough to kiss her. A light brush of his lips against hers. She grimaced, his lips were chapped, and his breath smelled like beer and cigarettes; anyone else would have recoiled in disgust, but Tulip wasn’t just anyone and she’d grown used to the taste. Not that she was pleased with it, always saying kissing him was like licking an ashtray. She’d tried endlessly to get him to stop, giving up when his stubbornness proved a powerful adversary. His dependency on the nasty habits had become a topic of many of their fights, and he’d always be left feeling like an ass as she stormed out of the room angrily. One of these days, he’d actually get his shit together, hopefully. 

The kiss only lasted a second before Tulip pulled away with a scowl, “you taste like shit.” There wasn’t any of the usual fire behind her words. She wasn’t trying to start a fight, just stating the obvious. 

He grinned cheekily up at her and she slapped him playfully on the arm. 

“Where’d you go last night anyway? I’m going to assume it wasn’t the library.” 

In the muddled recesses of his mind he could almost recall last night’s events if he thought hard enough. There had been a bar, no surprise there, and maybe a brief stint to Gibson hall. A professor there had given him an F on an exam last semester solely because he’d shown up drunk, and he was still pissed about it. He shrugged. 

“Oh, you know, the usual.” 

Tulip rolled her eyes, “you’re an idiot Jesse Custer.” With a level of dramatic cool that only she could possess, she leaped over him and landed on the floor with a slight bounce. Already dressed, in jeans and a black and white striped shirt, with a full face of makeup, she was looking significantly better than he did. Which, wasn’t uncommon considering she usually had her life together and he usually slept until noon. 

Thrown over the back of the chair in front of his desk was one of her many leather jackets, this one a deep red. She picked it up, and her boots that sat on the floor next to his tattered copy of ‘Beowulf’ before returning to the side of his bed and pressing a kiss to his temple. Jesse reached out on reflex, grabbing her wrist. He wanted her to stay, if only for a moment longer, because his head was pounding something furious and she was the only thing that made it tolerable. 

“Jess, I gotta go.” 

“C’mon babe-.” 

“No. _I've_ got to study, and _you_ need to take a shower.” 

She didn’t give him another chance to argue, pulling away with ease and starting toward the door. The thing creaked on its hinges. She stepped into the hall before pausing and turning back to face him. 

“And clean this room, will ya?” then she was gone, seeming to take the light with her. 

Jesse groaned before burying his head in his pillow. It smelled like him, cologne and sweat, but underneath that was faint traces of her. Tulip smelled like everything good in the world, roses and gunpowder, and a hint of something sweet. He breathed deeply, if only to memorize that smell, burn it into him, make it a part of his soul and never let it go. 

His stomach rolled dangerously as a wave of nausea washed over him, and a sharp pang to his temples made him hiss sharply. Worried that if he got to his feet he’d have to promptly rush to the shared bathrooms down the hall, he instead curled further into the comforter, pulling the thing around his shoulders and turning his back to the window that was letting in that infernal sun. Freshman year had been a lot easier, when drinking was more of a game and his body processed it faster. Now, alcohol was treated as more of a punishment, numbing him for only a few hours before bringing him back to reality with a harshness that seemed hardly fair. 

Wrapped tightly in the sheets, silence thrumming around him, sleep called for him easily. It wasn’t long before he was once again snoring softly, the headache fading as he was lulled further into the abyss. Dreams followed him this time. where last night there had been nothing, something was now stirring in his mind; Coiled, and waiting to attack. 

* * *

Tulip had met Jesse when she was fifteen. He’d been fourteen at the time, a gangly limbed kid with chubby cheeks and a pension for causing trouble. What she remembers most about him back then was his eyes, the same deep brown they were now, but containing a hollowness that didn’t seem natural. 

He called himself Jesse L’angelle, a habit that would take years for him to break out of, even though she knew his file read ‘JESSE ELIAS CUSTER’ in black, bold, letters. She’d stolen the manila folder from the social worker that had dropped him off, long enough to read a few pages from the thing before returning it, no one the wiser. He was 5’ 2’’, 105 pounds, and ‘had a history of abuse’. There had been pictures, grainy photos of him with his back to whoever held the camera. Shirtless and pale, it didn’t take Tulip long to spot the litany of scars and cuts that scanned the expanse of his skin. She wouldn’t know the story behind those marks until a year later, when she’d finally earned his trust and he’d whispered the story in the moonlit darkness of their shared room, his voice hushed so their foster parents wouldn’t hear. 

She remembers being surprised by the lack of emotion he’d expressed, no crying, or even a hint of any sort of sadness. It had been unsettling, but she figured he was trying to repress the whole thing. She’d do the same if she’d had to go through what he had. 

By the time Tulip turned seventeen, they were inseparable. Jesse would end up in her bed most nights, at first just to sleep peacefully, if only for a few hours. The trend had continued into college, until he’d found alcohol, then there was no telling where he’d spend his night. Sometimes, he would stumble into Tulip’s room; they’d made spare keys for each other, even though it was against school policy. Sometimes, Tulip would wait for him in his room. Occasionally, he’d never make it back to the dorms, and she’d have to go search for him. It wasn’t odd to find him passed out on various parts of the campus. She’d either leave him to prove a point or, if she was feeling generous enough, nudge him awake with the toe of her boot and bring him back to one of their beds. 

Last night she’d waited in his room. They were supposed to study together, but by the time Tulip had arrived he had already disappeared. She waited, sitting in his bed with her back against the wall, until he came teetering in around three, having to lean heavily against the door handle to keep from falling. 

Pleased that he didn’t show any new bruises or split knuckles from a fight, she’d helped him into bed, stripping him down to just his boxers and throwing his comforter over him before turning to leave. She had planned to check on him in the morning, not wanting to sleep next to him when he smelled like whiskey and regret. 

Jesse didn’t say anything until Tulip’s hand was on his light switch, then he called out in a uncharacteristically small voice, “Tul?” 

She didn’t turn to face him but replied, “yeah?” 

He’d sat up, eyes foggy and hair sticking up at odd angles. Their eyes met, and for a moment she could see the faintest traces of that fourteen year old boy, hollowness and all. 

“I’m sorry,” he had mumbled, almost as quiet as that night he’d told her about Angelville. 

She smiled at him sadly, “get some sleep Jess.”

He obeyed, falling back against the pillow and passing out almost instantly. 

It had stuck with her though, how lost and afraid he’d sounded. Even now, riding the bus to the main campus and trying to focus on the astronomy book in her lap, she couldn’t help but think about him. Jesse Custer was her weakness, and one of these days, was sure to be her downfall, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t seem to separate herself from him. They had become hopelessly entangled, their lives revolving around one another in a way that was alarmingly close to dangerous. He was like a drug, like the alcohol he depended on so heavily. 

_'Damn you Jesse Custer'_ , she thought, forcing her eyes back to the page before her. Echoes of his voice played in her mind, a constant loop of ‘I’m sorry’s’ whispered into the dark, and she just about screamed. 

_'Damn you straight to hell'_.

* * *

He was running. From what, he didn’t know, fear keeping him from turning to look behind him. His feet pounded against the rocky ground beneath him, and his breath came in short bursts. The treelined driveway stretched out before him for miles, a never ending line of branches bowing down and seeming to try to grab at him. For a moment, he thought of the Wizard of Oz, the branches that had grabbed at Dorothy and her friends, and worried that the same would happen to him. The rough bark taking hold of him, and keeping him trapped until whatever was pursuing him caught up.

Behind him, an engine revved. 

A choked sob escaped him, and he forced himself to run faster. Bushes and trees went by in a blur, green smearing the corners of his vision. His heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. His face was hot and sweat was dripping from his forehead in rivulets, plastering his hair to his skin. 

He didn’t notice the root in the road until it was too late, stumbling on the upturned thing and tripping. Rocks dug into the skin on his hand, tearing through it like paper. The cry that left his raw throat was one of pain and agony as he curled in on himself and held his shredded palms close to his heaving chest. 

The engine grew louder, echoing around him in a thunderous noise until it turned off suddenly and plunged everything into silence. Jesse couldn’t help the whimper that fell from his lips, hating how weak it made him sound. Boots crunched on the gravel, drawing closer to his huddled frame. He refused to open his eyes, believing the threat would go away if he couldn’t see it. It’s was a child’s dream, and he was pathetic for even thinking it. 

Someone laughed, this hideous thing that burrowed its way under his skin and sent a chill down his spine. 

“Nice try runt,” the voice spoke, deep and dangerous. It was something from his worst nightmare, like a demon pulled from the pits of hell, the ones his father used to warn him about. Hands grabbed him, wrapping around his bicep and yanking him to his feet. Fingernails like claws bit into the meaty part of his flesh. He tried to pull away, feet scrambling for purchase, but all he managed to do was kick up a cloud of dirt around them. 

Unwillingly, he opened his eyes to meet his captors’. What met him was a face of horrors. The thing had large eyes, consumed entirely in black. When it grinned at him, it revealed a row of jagged teeth, coated in blood that dripped down its chin. It could almost look nothing more than a human possessed, if not for the horns protruding from it’s forehead. Pointy, and seeming to be made from bone, the horns were also coated in a deep crimson liquid. 

Jesse closed his eyes again, and when he was brave enough to force them open once more, the face had morphed into his fathers. 

“D-dad?” He stuttered out, unable to stop the tears that welled in his eyes. His father smiled, but it looked off, wrong. 

Suddenly, the scene shifted, spinning with enough force to make him dizzy. When everything was still once more, Jesse found himself on his knees. He was in his pajamas, the old ones from a childhood long lost. Distracted by the familiar repeated pattern of a cowboy on his horse that spanned the cotton pants, Jesse didn’t notice the hand on his shoulder until it squeezed sharply, causing him to hiss in pain. 

“It’s your fault,” his father’s voice had Jesse looking up suddenly. The man’s hand gripped his son tightly, enough to leave bruises that would stay for weeks; purpling indentions right beside his collarbone that Jesse would stare at in the mirror, forcing himself not to cry and calling himself weak when he did. In his other, trembling, hand, his father held a gun that was pressed right below his chin. 

“Daddy?” Jesse sobbed, frightened and confused. He wanted to reach for his father, pull the glinting pistol from his hands and fix whatever mistake he had made, but fear kept him glued to his spot on the hardwood floor. Clenched tightly in his own small hand was a stuffed bear, given to him in the hospital the day he was born. Jesse had slept with it pressed to his chest ever since. The brown fur was matted with drool and dirt, but he refused to part with it. 

“It’s all your fault,” the man repeated, disgust overtaking his features as he looked at the shaking boy before him. 

“Daddy, please!” tears streamed down his face, dipping from his chin to the over-sized white shirt he wore, leaving damp splotches on the fabric. 

His father smiled, this twisted thing that chilled Jesse to the bone. The hammer of the gun clicked, as loud as thunder in the otherwise silent room. Jesse flinched, and sobbed harder. 

“I love you son,” John Custer said, pulling the trigger. The gun flashed. His head jerked back violently as blood sprayed the floor, ceiling, and his son, who could only watch in horror as his father’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor. 

Jesse trembled, wide eyed, for only a moment and then, he screamed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you couldn't tell already, this fic isn't really going to be the happiest.  
> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://preacherwithatemper.tumblr.com/)


End file.
